Page 63 of Rush
I know what that means. I've seen it happen to other kids.
"No," I say.
Wrong answer.
He swings and I duck. The punch glances off my shoulder instead of my face.
I don't think; I just react.
My fist connects with his nose and I feel it break. Blood sprays across the white tile.
The sound is wet and sharp, and it makes my stomach turn.
But I don't stop.
I can't stop.
Because if I stop, they'll know I'm weak and weak doesn't survive in here.
I keep hitting him. His friends try to pull me off but I'm fighting all three of them now.
Someone's screaming—might be me, might be Marcus.
Then the guards are there and they're pulling me off. My hands are bloody and Marcus is on the floor, not moving.
They put me in solitary for three days.
The cell is six by eight feet, concrete walls, metal door, no windows.
Just me and the darkness and what I've done.
I sit with my back against the wall and I shake. The adrenaline is wearing off and my hands hurt.
Marcus' blood is still under my fingernails.
I killed him. I must have killed him. That's the only thought in my head.
On day two, a guard tells me Marcus is alive—broken nose, fractured orbital bone, but alive.
I should feel relieved but I don't. I just feel empty.
On day three, I make a promise to myself.
Never again.
Never lose control like that again.
If I get out of here, I'll be better, I'll contain it, I'll never let the violence win.
I repeat it like a prayer, like if I say it enough times it'll be true.
I come back to myself in the garage. My hands are white-knuckled on the edge of the workbench.
The memory is so vivid I can still smell the bleach, can still feel the wet crunch of Marcus' nose breaking.
I force myself to breathe, to ground myself in the present.
But the flashback isn't done with me yet.
